


show me where my armor ends

by raumdeuter



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 09:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14892317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/pseuds/raumdeuter
Summary: Thomas and Mario celebrate Miro's fortieth birthday.





	show me where my armor ends

“You know,” says Miro, “it isn’t much of a birthday surprise if I can hear Thomas yammering about it from the hallway.”

He does come in all the way, though, and he carefully shuts the door and bolts it behind him, which softens the blow somewhat. Thomas still can’t keep himself from saying, “It wasn’t meant to be a _surprise_. A man of your age? I wouldn’t dare. You’d wind up in hospital, and it’d be bad for morale to boot.”

“I’m sure you’d recover soon enough,” says Miro dryly, as Mario saunters out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped obnoxiously low around his hips.

He doesn’t turn around when Mario snakes his arms around him and drops his chin on Miro’s shoulder like an overgrown cat. He does smile a little resignedly, but it’s mostly for show: even from his position on the bed Thomas can see the way his posture untenses, how the lines of his body settle, unthinkingly, against Mario’s.

“I wouldn’t,” says Thomas, in as dolorous a voice as he can manage, given the circumstances. “I would be heartbroken. With every touch of the ball I would think of you and weep. The tabloids would have a field day. It would be the scandal of the tournament.”

Miro doesn’t answer. Mario is busy dropping slow, lingering kisses along Miro’s neck and Miro is trying to pretend he isn’t arching into every touch, and Thomas thinks: god, it’s been too fucking long.

He slides easily off the bed, crowds them both close. Mario’s got his hands under Miro’s shirt by now, and Thomas doesn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t join in, splaying his fingers wide along the lines of his hipbones. Miro shudders a little, tipping his head back as Thomas’s fingers wander lower, grazing across his belly and down to the waistband of his track pants, and Mario meets Thomas’s gaze over his shoulder.

“Well?” says Mario, grinning with just a trace of the devil that led them all down this winding road so many years ago. “Swing with the camera to the man of the hour. Does he think he can handle us both tonight?”

“At this age?” repeats Miro, raising an eyebrow. “It would be bad for my heart.”

“You think too much, old man,” says Thomas cheerfully, and wrangles them all onto the bed.

 

\---

 

It feels like--coming home.

Maybe it’s strange to say that, when Eppan is nowhere near where they started in Bayern, late pre-match nights wrapped around each other in utter defiance of Miro’s protestations about curfew. But at some point Bayern had stopped feeling like home for Miro, and then for Mario, and Thomas, who hadn’t understood, try as he might--Thomas had molded himself to fit into the cracks, because that was something he couldn’t not do.

And then there had been Atletico, and Italy, and the stuttering half-strikes that had wound up saved, again and again and again. He supposes that was when it finally clicked, for him.

He supposes there’s something to be said for trust.

 

\---

 

Right now Thomas supposes the most beautiful sight in the world is Miro flushed and wanting under their hands, his hair--and he hasn’t changed _that_ in ten years, either, thinks Thomas fondly--mussed and spiky with sweat, his lips half-parted, his cock already leaking precome, trapped between his stomach and Thomas’s. His hands reach up blindly, find the back of Thomas’s neck, and as Mario presses into him from behind he shivers and pulls Thomas forward until they’re forehead to forehead.

For a moment he keeps him there, skin against skin, close enough Thomas can feel the way Miro’s breathing stutters and his cock twitches every time Mario rocks his hips. Thomas obliges him with a kiss, but only briefly, a teasing flicker of tongue: then he pulls away to work himself open, not bothering to be subtle about it, and Miro lets him with the faint huff of annoyance that’s the closest he usually gets to protesting.

“Any feedback about my pace, coach?” says Mario. He’s grinning down at them, steady and shameless, and below him Miro makes a desperate sound, his fingers clutching at the sheets on either side of Thomas.

“Not right now,” he breathes, and Christ, thinks Thomas, he must want it bad if he’s playing along instead of stopping and staring disapprovingly at the both of them. “But I’ve half a mind to leave Müller on the bench if he takes any longer--”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Thomas. “ _Müller spielt immer_ , haven’t you heard?”

“Thomas, _please--_ ”

“We did agree on Miro being the only coach who gets quoted in bed,” says Mario. This time the shudder that runs through Miro at the title is unmistakable, and Thomas exchanges a knowing glance with Mario. Something to keep in mind for Russia, he doesn’t say.

If Miro notices, he doesn’t get the chance to respond. At a nod from Thomas, Mario guides him forward, and whatever he’s about to say is lost in a low moan as he slides into Thomas, slick and tight and perfect.

After that it’s a blur: every movement from Mario only pushes Miro deeper into Thomas, and Miro, with his carefully hidden penchant for petty revenge, angles his hips so Thomas sees stars with every thrust. He claws at Miro’s shoulders and across his back for purchase, for anything, until he finds the anchor of Mario’s hand. He’s vaguely aware his mouth is on autopilot, his brain only giving him the highlights reel of whatever he’s saying-- _so fucking good, Miro, come on, give it to me--_ until Miro gasps something in Polish, his fingers tightening convulsively in the sheets, and comes apart tangled in their arms.

Mario’s as good as his word; he fucks Miro through it, his pace never flagging, and reaches around him to close his free hand around Thomas’s cock, and Thomas has just enough time to spare a half-formed thought for how much he’s needed this, how much he’s needed _him,_ before he’s coming so hard he can’t think anymore, thick white spurts across Miro’s chest and face.

By the time he comes back down to Earth Mario has collapsed next to him on the bed. Miro’s still half-draped across him, one thigh planted between Thomas’s knees, an arm slung over Thomas’s chest, his expression equal parts dazed and sated. When Thomas turns his head so he can kiss Mario properly Miro makes a muffled sound of protest as the movement jostles him, so Thomas supposes it’s only fair he kisses Miro, too.

“Happy birthday, opa,” he mumbles against Miro’s cheek, and rolls out of the way just in time, so it’s Mario who gets a flick across the ear for his troubles.


End file.
